The Boys In The Lesbian Jazz Band

The boys was sitting in a corner of the club one afternoon like they usually do, Playing music for a long time without interruption That they eventually named “Lesbian Love Tune”— They couldn't give any reason why when we asked them about it later— One of them had said it and the others had nodded. Apparently it just sounded that way! After that, the rest of us sat around trying to sort it out. Did all their other tunes sound different now? Maybe this way or that, Maybe masculine or tough, But it didn’t seem to be the case, And no one ever knew where or why That tune had come from. I think there’d have been less drama and curiosity If they’d called it instead by some vulgar name For a woman’s parts, some word That you normally can’t even say, But in the jazz world of that day might have prospered! At any rate, it plagued them and followed them From one engagement to another Until nobody wanted them any more. It wouldn’t have mattered any more If they’d named the tune “Balls” Or if they’d squelched it And never played it any more, But they were mesmerized by it, They couldn’t lay it down Any way except that one way! They painted themselves into a corner— With all their hearts they Played themselves into oblivion— And no one even remembers their names. No, not even me.

Worst or Least

You go on, no matter what, you try to stay alive, Maintain yourself, keep steady, At least keep wary of your worst or least self, Then check for the newspaper every day And resolve to answer the mail, if any... What difference does it make If your workshop has been condemned Or your latest project has been long delayed And now is mired in an impatient series of dilemmas That overlap your petulant dreams And elbow each other out And never resolve or stop.

Communication

What, no messages? No email, no comments? Why the hell should there be, I guess.

It's Still About Freedom

Chimes Of Freedom by Bob Dylan Far between sundown's finish an' midnight's broken toll We ducked inside the doorway, thunder crashing As majestic bells of bolts struck shadows in the sounds Seeming to be the chimes of freedom flashing Flashing for the warriors whose strength is not to fight Flashing for the refugees on the unarmed road of flight An' for each an' ev'ry underdog soldier in the night An' we gazed upon the chimes of freedom flashing. In the city's melted furnace, unexpectedly we watched With faces hidden while the walls were tightening As the echo of the wedding bells before the blowin' rain Dissolved into the bells of the lightning Tolling for the rebel, tolling for the rake Tolling for the luckless, the abandoned an' forsaked Tolling for the outcast, burnin' constantly at stake An' we gazed upon the chimes of freedom flashing. Through the mad mystic hammering of the wild ripping hail The sky cracked its poems in naked wonder That the clinging of the church bells blew far into the breeze Leaving only bells of lightning and its thunder Striking for the gentle, striking for the kind Striking for the guardians and protectors of the mind An' the unpawned painter behind beyond his rightful time An' we gazed upon the chimes of freedom flashing. Through the wild cathedral evening the rain unraveled tales For the disrobed faceless forms of no position Tolling for the tongues with no place to bring their thoughts All down in taken-for-granted situations Tolling for the deaf an' blind, tolling for the mute Tolling for the mistreated, mateless mother, the mistitled prostitute For the misdemeanor outlaw, chased an' cheated by pursuit An' we gazed upon the chimes of freedom flashing. Even though a cloud's white curtain in a far-off corner flashed An' the hypnotic splattered mist was slowly lifting Electric light still struck like arrows, fired but for the ones Condemned to drift or else be kept from drifting Tolling for the searching ones, on their speechless, seeking trail For the lonesome-hearted lovers with too personal a tale An' for each unharmful, gentle soul misplaced inside a jail An' we gazed upon the chimes of freedom flashing. Starry-eyed an' laughing as I recall when we were caught Trapped by no track of hours for they hanged suspended As we listened one last time an' we watched with one last look Spellbound an' swallowed 'til the tolling ended Tolling for the aching ones whose wounds cannot be nursed For the countless confused, accused, misused, strung-out ones an' worse An' for every hung-up person in the whole wide universe An' we gazed upon the chimes of freedom flashing. Copyright ©1964; renewed 1992 Special Rider Music Play the youtube of Chimes Of Freedom.

Invention

Robert Byrne: "Getting caught is the mother of invention."

Things Go On

(from Dogger Gatsby's Dark Blue Notebook)
Christmas, you say? It's not a matter of Humbug, it's just that I don't think anything of it. Nothing is very comfortable these days, but it doesn't matter because it cannot change. Things go on, but not forever.

High Flight

by John Gillespie Magee, Jr., 1941 Oh, I have slipped the surly bonds of earth, And danced the skies on laughter-silvered wings; Sunward I've climbed, and joined the tumbling mirth Of sun-split clouds...and done a hundred things You have not dreamed of...wheeled and soared and swung High in the sunlit silence. Hov'ring there, I've chased the shouting wind along, and flung My eager craft through footless halls of air. Up, up, the long, delirious burning blue I've topped the windswept heights with easy grace Where never lark, nor even eagle flew. And while with silent, lifting mind I've trod The high untrespassed sanctity of space... ...put out my hand, and touched the face of God.

Making An Impression

Another One of my Lazy Poems

That woman, I swear, had hairs in her nose, But that's not unusual, And for an older woman with wrinkles everywhere, She sure looked fine, handsome, delicious, All at the same time--she made me hot, she made me hurt! She made me want to spend my last and latest urges Without calculation, among the chickens Scratching out existence on this damn dung heap, Or purse myself like some giant kiss And hope I can press myself upon her As if she's the last woman left alive! Will she be impressed?! Probably not. She may just see me as some past wound That's yet to heal. She looks so good Not only that she wiggles when she walks But even just sitting there with her head inclined, She makes my glasses fog And all my glandular impulses (I'm such a dog!) even more urgent! I just don't know, I don't think I ever had a chance!

We Don't Know Much

In August 2006, Technorati found that the most linked-to blog on the Internet was that of Chinese actress Xu Jinglei. Chinese media Xinhua reported that this blog received more than 50 million page views, claiming it to be the most popular blog in the world. The info above was taken from the Wikipedia article about blogs. Whether the info is accurate or not, I cannot say, but I do find it fascinating that something/someone so wonderfully popular two years ago is still an utter mystery to me--I've never heard of this or any other Chinese actress! Oh, well, actors and actresses everywhere are moving in different social circles from me. We don't know much in America, it's plain to see. I doubt that even the American actors and actresses know Xu Jinglei (what is she, anyway--a jingle bell?). Ah, well, somebody somewhere cares, but not me...

Intergalactic Underachiever?

"The Day The Earth Stood Still" seems to be taking a bad beating, from amateurs and pros alike, so far. I haven't seen it, but the original was always one of my favorites, and I have little expectation of a movie that stars the most witless shit of a non-acting actor possible, Keanu Reeves. Well, unless they'd hired that weird comic homunculus, Jack Black! Anyway, I'm sorry to hear, but not surprised, that this is one more movie remake that is worse that the original. Apparently, if all I've heard so far is true, it's another remake where they thought that more elaborate special effects would make up for all their lack of heart. Images instead of ideas, but that's typical Hollywood, isn't it? Too bad, I guess. I don't see many movies any more, and maybe this is one of the reasons why.

Braving The Snow

It snowed here yesterday, only a few inches, yet a thing that seldom happens in Southeast Texas. I only remember it snowing once around here when I was a kid--at least only once that was enough for snowballs and snowmen! I've grown too old to give much of a hoot for the snow by now, but it was an interesting sight, especially since I didn't have to get up early and go anywhere on the icy roads. In fact I didn't even have to go outside, though I did, but only briefly. Now we'll wait to see how many plants keel over and die from all this extreme exposure.

Boring!

Bert Leston Taylor: "A bore is a man who, when you ask him how he is, tells you."

Jesse James

Have you killed a banker yet today? What are you waiting for--Jesse James to do it for you?

I Googled Myself—Pant, Pant!

I don't remember being aware at the time (2005) that I'd been quoted (only a paragraph about the author, John Fowles) by the BBC—which just goes to show that everything that happens (even on the infernal Internet) doesn't always show!

Window Sill

Sometimes I see you have become This other, grown, woman I seldom see. I used to see you every day On those vendor days on the Drag in Austin And it always improved the flavor and the pleasure, It was the favor the world did for me, It always made something worthwhile for me Just to see your smile come soaring from so deep inside (And I didn't even mind that it was not just for me), And then it all was followed (sometimes preceded) By that little black dog of yours named Shadow. But what I remember best is our youth, Shiny and pert and new, not yet bowed down or weak, I remember it better perhaps than I do last week Or even an hour ago...

Empty The Box At Last

Take a long goodbye And take it on the chin at length And you may see what little there is Or you may turn around and meet What it is you've struggled toward long last What it's been like, swearing, swaying, swerving, Wearing way, away—oh, very fast!

How Far You Go

Let the singer sing your song, Let the dancer dance to your tune, And turn your face toward us all To let us know that nothing's ever gone No matter how far you go.

Telemarketers, and Fingers In A Knot

In "Just Like Tom Thumb's Blues", Bob Dylan Writes about how he cannot move, That his fingers are "all tied in a knot", Which for some reason is a condition I recognize these days Because I so often suffer from it. All my illnesses and symptoms conspire To make me constantly aflutter, my gait hobbled, One hand always resting on the walking stick, Trying to figure out how to carry things through doorways And yet be able to also open and close the doors... I am always fumbling with my pill bottles To such an extent That while handling one of them okay I knock another one over. If I don't knock over what I intend to manipulate, I knock something else down and end unmanned. Anything that falls always falls to the goddamn floor. Now I need THAT, so I have to retrieve it, Except I can't bend down quite that low without agony, So I have to go get the grabber that, Like my cane, I bought at WalMart's cripple counter. I shower, dress, count out the pills, And am already tired each morning Before I can exit the bedroom and get to the kitchen. Life is hell, unless you somehow like this sort of thing, Always being awkward, askance, anemic, Tired and falling down before the beginning And as mad as hell at everyone And at yourself that you can't do any better. Then maybe the phone rings and I rush to answer it And can't believe how often it's mere jerkoff junk-call, A recording that's horrible and probably illegal-- Why won't telemarketers ever Die? (is there no God?)-- But more than that, it's all so savagely misleading For people like me who are sick and can't really hurry. Nonetheless, I keep trying--it's force of habit. If I ever can, I'm going to stop answering the goddamn telephone. Things get kinky. Things get weird. And ridiculous concepts of decency and dignity Aren't going to make it ever stop. Might as well try to bring back the forties.

"Gatsby's Pains & Tribulations". Pp. 113-117

When it hurts to be alive, what do you do? Is death the primary option or are there more? I ponder it, but reach no conclusion. What if death is no surcease of pain or discomfort? What if one's mental agony goes on? Should I write a novel about it? How could that ever be of interest? I suspect it's all been done. There's not, and never has been, anything more boring than descriptions of such cold discomfort--at any rate, I can't imagine it. When it hurts to be alone, what do you do? I could go out (I sometimes do), but no one's there and those who are not there have no cognizance of their absence or of mine and we are all in the stew together, even if we are alone... I guess that doesn't quite make sense, though I know what it means and it may be that you do, too... We hang around, we wait to see, and wish that things still meant things like they used to do, but most of those old things are gone or, at the least, eroded, faded, worn away, reduced to pity's matters... If we could get out of all of this, wouldn't we? Or is that just me? Is everyone else acquainted, familiar with, and not embarrassed by, these deathful knells, these trembling spells, these waits upon the edge of every ditch or trench? It may be so... Which, though? I can't even keep track of what I postulate...